


A Garden Beyond Right and Wrong

by PermianExtinction



Series: Tropoverse Canon [2]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars: Aftermath - Chuck Wendig
Genre: Belligerent Sexual Tension, Brief Suggestive Behavior Involving Fruit, Described as an Evil Space Military Jane Austen Novel by a Reader, F/M, Multiple Pov, Oodles of Alien Flowers, Some From Wookieepedia Some Made Up
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-12
Updated: 2017-08-12
Packaged: 2018-12-14 13:03:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,331
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11783718
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PermianExtinction/pseuds/PermianExtinction
Summary: Uncertainty draws people to places of comfort like flowers bend to light.A encounter in the Ravager's garden, set somewhere towards the end of the middle of Aftermath: Life Debt.





	A Garden Beyond Right and Wrong

**Author's Note:**

> "Somewhere beyond right and wrong, there is a garden; I will meet you there."
> 
> \- Jalaluddin Rumi 
> 
> Many months ago I challenged myself on a whim to write a trashy fanfic based on this quote. It's finally done. Honestly it could be trashier but we'll enjoy what we've got.

Each time Sloane visits the private conservatory nestled in the upper decks of the  _Ravager_ , the air carries a different heady scent. A new bed of exotic flowers will be in bloom, and the ones that came before will be drooping demurely, buds shut in sleep, perhaps surrounded by a wilted pile of their own petals. 

Sloane doesn't consider herself unappreciative of the natural world, unlike the many naval officers she has known who have come to desire only the clean shine and geometric beauty of durasteel corridors. And in her modest appreciation, Sloane believed once that she could recognize a range of flora from around the galaxy. But the conservatory on the _Ravager_ always confounds her senses, mingling the familiar with just enough of the alien for her to doubt herself. It should be enchanting, but amid the artificial mist, with plant fronds grasping towards her from all sides the deeper she goes, it unnerves her. Nothing here remains constant; it feels as if there could be twenty gardens aboard the ship, and she has stumbled into a new one on every visit.

She imagines meaning behind it, that Gallius Rax likes novelty, perhaps. Useful as such an insight might be, it does not bode well for her. It is all too easy to imagine herself being one lovely flower in a garden of hundreds, set to bloom for just as long as she remains interesting.

Sloane tells herself that's not worth her concern. She doesn't intend to wait for Rax's decision on her own worth, on the worth of the Empire as she knows it. 

She tells herself that has never  _been_ the plan, though she has been stalling for far too long. 

Decisions swirl about in her mind. They feel as dense and intangible as the tangled red clouds of the nebula they’ve been hiding in. But those clouds are not visible from here. The ceiling is a wash of artificial sunlight, even if by the time it reaches her, it is shadowed and diffracted by layers of green.

This is the first time she's shown up uninvited to the garden. It's a bold move, but as Grand Admiral, she should have access any room in the ship —  _my ship_ , she thinks — regardless of anyone else's convenience.

He will know she is here. Perhaps this is her own test of him. 

(Perhaps she’s just goading him. But she feels his tests might have been the same way.)

Walking further in, her eyes clinically trace the shapes of their leaves and stems before landing on the flower, if there is one. But her hands remain clasped behind her back, never touching, a courtesy to balance out her intrusion.

Sloane's gaze falls to a nearby tree, its dark green leaves curling in on themselves into open cones, some of which contain a tantalizing hint of amber. Inspecting the plant gives her something to do while the seconds roll by. She inhales more deeply, and finds its scent pleasant, even appetizing. Perhaps it is bearing fruit.

Sooner than she might have expected, she hears footfalls. 

 

Even from the entrance, Rax catches sight of the Grand Admiral’s uniform, pure white entangled amid the dark green. It brings to mind such tales from forested worlds like Samhar or Arrey or indeed old Jakku, of a mythical horned white quarry slipping through the deep forest. A fey thing, that which cannot, but must be, pursued, that which leads hunters astray. And so he moves closer, discerning her form through the leaves.

She is lingering by the nehan tree — Rax smiles at that. He’s pleased how that one turned out, after all the care he gave it. And then she turns, and he sees that familiar tight little twist in the corner of her lips, the furrowed brow. The uncertainty and the concentration, as she tries to parse his presence, prepared for anything. Though his smile does not slip, he feels disappointment. He would rather see her otherwise, with _steel in her spine_ — he’s told her as much. But she came here by choice. That is enough for now. 

And she certainly does not seem startled. Rather, she was expecting him.

He greets her with arms spread open, an inviting gesture. “Hello, Rae.” 

“Admiral,” she says, nodding to him. 

“I admit…” The plants have been misted down in the past hour; water drops cling to them like tiny jewels. Idly, Rax trails a gloved finger on the underside of a lush frond, tilting it up so the dewdrops slide back along its surface towards the stem. “I am surprised to find you here.”

“The irregularity of this visit does not escape me,” Sloane says crisply, and it’s certainly an inelegant, austere response, but she meets his gaze, and her expression composes itself. “I felt I needed a change of scenery.”

“Yes, well…” Sweeping a hand up towards the canopy, Rax lets his smile widen. Not just for her benefit, but because he feels a swell of intoxicating pride. He is content to collect beauty and surround himself with it, but this conservatory is special for carrying traces of his own guiding hand. He cultivated these plants, and watched them grow. He _should_ be proud. “There is no scenery like this anywhere else aboard the ship.”

“Indeed there is not.”

Rax approaches, stops close enough that he could reach out and touch her shoulder, and feel how stiffly she is maintaining her posture— but he does not. “Has something been troubling you?”

“Only the uncertainty of our future.” Sloane takes a further breath as if she has more to say, but then exhales wordlessly, averting her eyes. 

There are always unspoken words with her, everything held back. Rax supposes he senses them because her mistrustfulness is rather like his own. Someday, perhaps, she will see they are not so different. 

“As always, I am saddened by your doubt,” he tells her, and from the way her eyes flick back towards him for just a moment, accusingly, she thinks he’s lying. He isn’t. Nothing would please him more than to inspire her confidence. “But there _is_ a clear path ahead, Rae. You’ll find it. Even if for now it all seems as…” He gestures around them, trying for levity. “As dark and dense as a jungle.”

He waits for a response, even the smallest smile or a returning quip, or anything that might lessen the tension. But Sloane is unforthcoming, and Rax is almost hurt by this. Did she not expect him here? The only other times she has visited the garden were at his summons. He assumed that her presence here was an informal request for conference. But now more than _ever_ , she seems to want him away. To want solitude.

Perhaps she simply does find the garden calming. 

His anger softens. Who could blame her? The air is carries a rich bouquet, fresh where the rest of the ship might feel stale. It is quiet and still, disconnected from the constant chatter of intercoms, mechanical beeps and blinking lights. There is nothing but beauty here, to sweep away troubled thoughts. 

Rax tells himself he must be more charitable. Even if there remains a peculiar lump of displeasure in his throat. He _understands_ , but cannot avoid what he _wants_ …

“Of course, you are always welcome here,” he says, and when he finds her eyes on him once more, he offers a benevolent smile. “I hope it is as much a comfort to you as it has been for me.”

And now, he imagines he should go, but he lingers still. Even as she turns away, he seems to be enticed closer to her, strange as that may seem — like how the plants of this garden lean towards their light source. If she enjoys herself here, he wants to _know,_ down to the last detail of her experience. 

He wrenches his focus to a nearby Ithorian donar, cupping the violet bloom and leaning in to investigate its sweet perfume. But his mind is still teeming hungrily with questions. Would she rather work in this quiet atmosphere, datapad in hand, or would she prefer to use this time mulling over her thoughts? Would she ever come here in the night cycle, to witness the glowing orange gorsa tree blossoms and silvery moonflowers? Has she noticed how artfully the flower beds have been seeded, to a perfect mathematical formula, so that as many diverse combinations of scents are in the air from day to day? Which flowers are her _favorite_?

Yet even thinking such things brings a chill of exposure, as if he’s baring skin. Rax straightens up briskly, tugging at the ends of his gloves. “I must be off, now—” he begins.

But he hears Sloane’s voice over his. “I was wondering—”

They pause at the same time. He hears her clearing her throat. What an awkward, unplanned little moment — but not undesirable, perhaps? He drifts closer, trying not to seem too eager. “What were you wondering?”

Sloane lifts up one of the rolled nehan leaves with the pads of two fingers, gingerly. It hangs slightly heavy, from what is enclosed within. “Are these berries?”

He cannot contain his delight, at this. “They are! Indeed, they are… How observant of you.” 

Moving to her side, Rax reaches out and lightly pinches the base of the conical leaf she is holding, tilting it to display the hidden treasure within. Like the tongue of a bell, the berry hangs from the point of the cone, pendant-shaped, translucent golden orange with a tiny green dot suspended in the center of it.

He had expected that Sloane would quickly withdraw her hand when his came so close, but she does not move, even as he slips his thumb into the leaf and opens it up, putting the droplet on full display. 

His fingers are touching hers, black leather against brown skin. She does not react.

“Before I go,” he says a tad breathlessly, “I should tell you I am quite proud to see this one fruiting; after all, it doesn’t tend to do so, so early in its lifespan, and in captivity too.”

“Oh?”

“Some specimens in my collection truly require more care than others,” Rax muses. As he pauses, he glances at Sloane. How interested is she, really? 

She remains where she is, even with him so close by. Her features are unmoved, attention fixed on the leaf. Those faint stern lines that grace the corners of her eyes and lips are often subtle tells, and this time they’re configured for command, as she is when she’s on the bridge and working through strategies in her mind. Rax notes this with intrigue, and continues.

“This nehan tree, as I said, would not be bearing fruit now if it were left on its own.” He brushes his hand through the leaves, and they respond with a papery rustle. “Nor would it appear so elegant.”

To his mind it resembles an ornamental headdress, with the clusters of curled leaves matching the rolls a noblewoman might have in her hair. And now, with spots of bright color peeking out here and there, it looks even more lavish. But in truth it is closer to a simple hedge, never growing much larger than this even in the wild, to be found lining the shores of lakes in the temperate northern hemisphere of a Mid Rim world. 

He would tell her all this, but she’s looking rather like she wants him to get to the point. And he feels that if he waxes too poetic about a woman’s hair, he might catch himself unbalancing this delicate situation.

(But it really is noteworthy, that someone of Sloane’s strict moral caliber would defy Navy convention and wear her hair long, its volume contained only by an artfully hidden band when most would opt for a bun — plenty of officers engage in little defiances, and he prides himself for being the most defiant of all when it comes to Imperial mores, but Sloane is so traditional in other respects…)

So he lets all that go unspoken.

“In fact,” he says, “it would likely grow so dense and matted it would closer resemble a wool-bearing beast.”

“You prune it, then?”

“Every three days. I find it quite relaxing.” 

Sloane _hmm_ s a bit in affirmation. He can tell that she’s tucking that bit of information on him away, however insignificant it might be. He wonders for himself how it might be used against him. Assassination attempts, perhaps, now that she has a clearer idea of his schedule? How charming.

When it comes to certain individuals, Sloane has a keen mental file — was it not so recently that she dug through the Imperial Archives for any scrap of his past, and was it not in this very garden that he confronted her on it? With that doggedness, she would have made a wonderful ISB agent, though, ironically, he has heard she has a particular distaste for the bureau.

“So you see,” Rax continues, gesturing to the tree, “growing according to its natural inclination, it expends energy and nutrients on additional shoots and branches. Untended, it would produce only grain-sized seeds, but if the excess shoots are clipped… We may have fruit.” He grins and plucks a berry, offering it to her in the palm of his hand. 

Though she takes it, she only examines it. “Perhaps this tree doesn’t best represent what I was considering, then.” The nehan berry rolls between her fingers and thumb. “Not to disparage the beauty of the garden, but it might also be worthwhile to pursue a model for food production. The more we are cut off from our supply worlds, the more possible it seems for the New Republic to simply… starve us out, as unlikely as that might have once seemed.”

“Always the practical thinker,” he murmurs, “aren’t you?”

Sloane bristles. “What of it?”

Rax holds up a hand, placating. “No, you misunderstand… I do not criticize here, I find your practicality admirable.”

Her scowl only deepens. She thinks she’s being trivialized. “But not applicable here?” 

“On the contrary, I think your idea may be quite valuable to us.” He smirks, wondering if he’s guessed what she’s thinking. “Should I be ashamed of keeping such an extravagant plaything as a garden simply for my own pleasure, while the rest of the Empire suffers?”

Sloane’s eyes fix on his. It strikes him that they contain hints of the same honey-brown color as the berry in her palm, even if it mingles with darker tones. 

“Perhaps,” she says.

Is she _teasing_ him? Or is she dead serious? Could it be both? 

Either way, she’s growing more daring. Rax hides his surprise with a dismissive little chuckle. “Then perhaps you should be a bit ashamed as well, to be enjoying yourself here at all. And speaking of enjoyment, I see you haven’t tried the berry. What do you think I put in so much work for?”

“So they _are_ edible?”

He suspects what she’s really asking is whether they aren’t poison. An understandable concern for someone of her position. 

“They are.” One fruiting cone hangs from the higher branches of the tree, just brushing against Rax’s cheek. “And quite to my taste,” he adds, and takes the leaf in hand, unrolling it, spreading it out with his thumbs. The berry perks up from where it attaches to the stem; he regards it for a moment. 

Sloane is watching, face stubbornly blank.

Demurely, Rax bends forward and touches his tongue to the firm little bead, slipping it underneath with innocent delicacy to take the berry into his mouth.

Then the berry breaks from the stem and bursts into flavor between his teeth — the smaller the fruit, the tarter it is, and this one puts a tingling ache in his jaw for just a moment.

There's self-consciousness in Sloane's body language as she turns away, propping her elbow up with one hand, warily regarding the berry in her palm. Now, Rax imagines, she's less concerned about it being poisonous and more concerned about the act of eating it being an acquiescence. Or would she seem more in control of the scene if she did eat, proving herself unconcerned by the delicate balance of action and suggestion?

Such a lot of worry to have over the taste of a homegrown fruit. Rax can't help but appreciate it. Sloane is so full of thoughts that watching her, piecing together what could be on her mind, is like playing a long, complex game. And time seems to move more slowly when he’s with her. 

He lets her deliberate and busies himself with harvesting the largest and ripest berries from the tree. It's hardly enough to supplement a meal, but what does that matter? He's pleased enough simply to have brought them into being. 

As he sorts through the tree leaves, he hums a short cue from _The Esdrit and the Tholothian_ , one of the more peculiar operas he has come to favor. Some say the story is a tragedy, and others say it ends happily. Some consider it a romance, and for others it is nothing but a dramatized retelling of political upheaval. Some find its use of classic poetry mingling with original lyrics an enigmatic but thrilling choice. Some believe it vulgar and uninspired. And its reliance on silence, pantomime, and sparse melodies was hailed both as revolutionary and as an insult to the art form. For some, the softly-sung final aria is antithetical to the idea of operatic performance. Others argue that despite its timidity, it requires significant vocal prowess to master.

_Somewhere, somewhere, there is a garden._

Or one could say 'field' for the translation, or 'green place', but it amounted to the same thing.

Rax thinks he spots Sloane slipping the nehan berry between her lips. But he does not comment, and returns to his task.

_Somewhere, a garden, beyond right and wrong._

_I will meet you there._

Very shortly he has more berries than he can hold in one hand. He steps closer to Sloane, and touches her shoulder gently. 

When she looks at him, he shows her the heap in his palm. "Care for another?”

She nods, and takes another. Just one, carefully lifted from the top of the pile. 

"There are other plants here that bear fruit. Perhaps I could show them to you as well, in due time."

Sloane bites through the thicker end of the berry, splitting the seed. "I didn't realize you were such an enthusiast." Shifting away from the tree, she lifts aside a dangling veil of leaves. "I had the impression that music was your field of interest.”

"A man may have more than one," he protests, laying the rest of the berries onto the marble wall of the nearest raised beds. 

"Then I apologize for thinking you were... singularly focused."

"On opera?" he says, and laughs. "There are those who dedicate their lives to creating it. Why should there be any limit to appreciating it? But I admire plants for a different reason. They are beautiful simply in their being. They do not study their own art form, but perform nonetheless. Flowers are like songs that write themselves." 

Sloane has already crossed over to a different planting bed, leaning forward with her hands pressed on the rim. Her fingers drum against the smooth stone. "Poetically phrased,” she says.

"Ah? Thank you—” 

But he's interrupted; he hears Sloane exclaim, "Oh!"

A group of flower buds are slowly unfurling before her, revealing deep green petals. She straightens and appraises them; they seem eager to lean towards her as they present their glory. 

Rax clears his throat. ”A Lothal daisy," he says. “They bloom when they sense life-forms present."

“How generous of them," Sloane remarks, pursing her lips. She’s likely embarrassed at being startled so easily. 

Generous. Yes, perhaps it could be seen that way, of green daisies or of any flower, to offer their beauty to any creature that passes by. But when you are a flower, and the best you can do is be beautiful, what could you want more than the attention of others?

"Would you..." He clears his throat. "Would you permit me to show you around the rest of the garden?" His words come out strangely. Not at the least because he isn't used to starting sentences with 'would you permit me' and truly meaning it. "Unless you find talk of botany to be dreary.”

“No. Not particularly.”

Both of their voices are hushed compared to before. Rax thinks again of the opera, of that controversial quiet.

Sloane takes two steps, and is at his side. He is not reaching towards her, merely gesturing, hands outstretched. Yet, inexplicably, her hand closes around his wrist. Heat courses up his arm, from where her palm presses against a bare sliver of skin where his sleeve has slipped back.

When he controls the first flinching reaction to this sudden contact, there is a thrill of excitement, trepidation. She's keeping things interesting this time. Perhaps she really intends to end him here, though he doesn't see a weapon at her hip. He always imagined that the day she lost her hesitation would be the day she came for his life. 

"Shall we, then?" she asks. 

He places his free hand over hers. "It would be my pleasure," he replies.

 

Not for the first time, Sloane feels that she is within a calm that will soon give way to a storm. But unlike before, the storm is not approaching — she is surrounded by it, catching her balance in the eye of the hurricane.

And embracing the calm that waits within the eye is a survival instinct, as much as fear might be. Facing unknowable odds, there is only so much use for panic. And when that threshold is reached, the mind may simply decide to shut it off. It is surprisingly peaceful.

Sloane is aware that it's a compromising position to be in. She is no fresh-faced recruit on her first big mission, and just as she's seen plenty of officers lose themselves to their panic, she has seen them simply give up, eyes glazed over, already making their peace with the Force.

It's a delicate game to play with one's own will to live.

When she lays her hand against Rax's arm, she sees something waver — a tiny core of life in those two coal-black eyes that usually seems to smolder hot enough to sustain him, despite the rest of him being so deathly cold. And she knows in that instant that he's been playing the game too.

She has no idea what he could possibly be dreading. If he is afraid, should she be as well? Or should she take a sense of security from his weakness? 

His hand remains on hers as he steps forward, but it is such a careful, light grip that she could slip out at any time. For the moment, she chooses to follow.

The closest flowers in bloom are stunningly dark, with pointed petals that purple towards the tips. Rax chuckles softly as they approach, seemingly enjoying a private joke. Reaching out to them, his finger flicks under one of the petals as if clucking the chin of a small child. 

“Alderaanian black lilies,” he says. “Significantly rarer now, of course. But they became rare even before the planet’s destruction. Few wished to be caught selling seeds of the flower that slandered the Emperor.”

Sloane squints at the lilies, wondering what they could do to offend anyone. “I’ve never heard of this slander.”

Rax’s smirk is, for a moment, as sharp and cruel as a blade. “About ten years ago, a treasonous Alderaanian artist created a grass painting of Palpatine and invited him to view it. You know of the art form?” He waits for Sloane’s nod — she’s heard of it, flowers planted such that they illustrate a picture when blooming — and then continues. “These lilies were spread out across the field, marring the image of Palpatine’s face. It looked as wizened and deformed as it did in life.” 

The delight Rax takes in telling this story is unmistakeable. His voice practically purrs with amusement. If it was treason for the artist to depict the Emperor’s ugliness, Sloane thinks, it is no less treasonous to call the depiction an accurate one.

But this is not the first time Rax has spoken flippantly of the late Emperor — speaking as if above reproach, as if everything Palpatine built was now his plaything.

“Was he expecting a more flattering depiction?” Sloane asks, neutrally. 

“He must have, since he had the painting burned. But they never caught the artist. So it seems he had the last laugh.” 

_You admire that man_ , Sloane thinks, mildly astonished. _You honor his impudence._

She moves on from the patch of lilies and regards a fuchsia flower hanging from a trellis, its long petals dangling and almost touching the soil of its bed. It looks like a tentacled creature on a fishmonger’s rack, or a decorative lantern. 

“I know what you’re thinking. That I planted these flowers to express my sentiments towards the late Emperor. And you wouldn’t be wrong.” 

“Did you really hate him so much?” Sloane turns back to Rax. He is, for a few seconds, silent. 

Then he _tsks_ sharply and steps closer just as Sloane feels a light tugging on her scalp, as if her hair has caught on a branch. “Dear me. Hold still.” And then his hands are reaching behind her head, encircling her. 

Sloane withdraws on instinct. “What are you—?” 

Rax lowers his arms. “You’re in a bit of a tangle.” 

Touching the back of her head, Sloane feels those tentacle-like petals from the hanging flower curling into her locks. “Ugh!” she exclaims, bristling with indignation. “What is it doing?”

“It seems it wants you to pollinate it,” Rax tells her, but his entertainment shifts to alarm as Sloane tries to jerk her head free, the vine rustling in distress behind her. “No, no! Wait, please—!” 

He grabs her shoulder and tries to push her back, while his other hand extends to catch a torn-off petal as it flutters down.

“Oh,” he says, then.

“It assaulted me,” Sloane snaps, miffed. She untangles the rest of the petals herself, more carefully.

Rax closes his fingers around the ribbon of color, eyes cast down. Then he exhales slowly and lets it fall to his feet. “You’re right, it did. Perhaps it will learn better now.” He’s grinning insincerely when he looks up, as if he could make her forget the desperation that spiked his tone moments earlier. 

Sloane cards her fingers impatiently through her hair, making sure all the sprigs are out. The flower itself has retreated back into a closed position, with the torn stump of a petal marring its symmetry. “I’m sorry,” she eventually mutters, but Rax has a hand up quicker than she can finish her words.

“No need for that,” he insists.

And he’s right. Why should she be apologizing to him for anything, let alone a damaged flower? 

“The melchid is a pernicious plant to take care of. As you saw, it becomes very curious when blooming. But come, there’s so much more to see. Never mind one flower.”

The heel of his shoe presses the petal into the floor as he moves on, herding her away. 

And one by one she is acquainted with flora from all around the galaxy, decorated with more flamboyant colors than could be found anywhere else aboard an Imperial ship. Red Queen’s Heart, and turquoise palomella, and pink mycosia, beaded and spotted and dappled and veined, blurring together at a certain point, past the point where she can remember them at a glance. Not just flowers, too, but broad Jovarian sun ferns, purple-leaved rutolu hedges, and even a soft little lawn of Chintassa grass, which Sloane recognizes as a delicacy. 

There is no point to it, she eventually decides. At first she thought he might be keeping her here to assess her, or teach her something about his personal philosophy. But the more time passes, the harder it is to imagine a bigger picture in the conversation. 

This might be the longest span of time she has spent with the Fleet Admiral. Their meetings are frequent but always brief; he ends up dismissing her with a haughty wave of his hand before long. But not here.

Rax hovers beside her, sometimes telling stories about a flower’s claim to fame, sometimes describing a plant’s needs, how acidic soil is necessary here, alkaline soil here, the positions and wavelengths of the sun lamps, to account for all the kinds of suns these plants have evolved for.

If only he put so much attention into nurturing what was left of the Empire, she thinks at one point, in a burst of anger. But she can’t find a moment to speak her mind, as he’s in the middle of describing a toothed maw on a stalk, what is apparently a tooke-trap plant, from Naboo.

“It would be unwise to keep any carnivorous plants bigger than this one,” he is saying, eyes crinkling fondly at the corners as he examines the monstrous thing. “And I am sure it would prefer live meat — small rodents being its prey of choice — but it manages well enough on raw provisions.”

“If only you put so much att—” Sloane begins, and then the tooke-trap bends forward and snaps its jaws over Rax’s fingers.

His squeak of surprise is enough to make this whole visit worth it, even if it derails her thoughts. Rax withdraws, massaging the assaulted hand with the other. 

Sloane thinks she sees a flash of hostility in his eyes, and she matches his gaze without flinching. No surprise that he doesn’t take embarrassment well.

“The plants here are too damn lively,” she says. “Aren’t they?”

“Ah. I… see what you mean.” His laugh is strained, at first. It must make him so uncomfortable when things go off script. But he looks away, and for a second he makes an attempt to smile. 

Sloane takes a step to the side, towards a smooth marble bench shaded by a tall tree. As she sits, she crosses one leg over the other, and lays an arm over the backrest. They’re back where they started, in the center of the conservatory. The stouter nehan tree sits across from her, and there’s even the heap of berries next to her that Rax left behind. 

They’re quite tempting. She can still remember the taste, almost honeyed, almost spicy, but refreshing.

Actually, she _will_ have more of them, as many as she pleases, because she remembersdithering over a tray of sweets on Akiva, wondering what would leave the best impression, what would be the best _performance_ , and she’s _tired_ of that.

There are so many thin, insignificant layers of artifice that she is simply tired of. 

She scoops up the pile of amber teardrops. They taste as good as before.

Rax is lingering nearby. _Come on,_ Sloane thinks. _Drop your act, drop that ego of yours. Let it fall; show me what’s underneath._

He drifts closer, crimson robe trailing on the floor, and then he settles down beside her on the bench.

“Did you want these?” Sloane asks, even as she presses several more berries into her mouth. 

“Food thief,” he says. A joke, but his eyes do flicker over her hands as if the thought to reach out and snatch at them has crossed his mind. When Sloane shows the four remaining berries to him, he tracks them like a dog after a treat.

“There’s more on the tree,” she reminds him, pointing across the path. “You won’t starve, will you?” 

He subsides, gives her a skewed half-grin. “Those were the ripest.” 

Sloane silently lays the berries on the span of bench between them. Rax collects them in his hand and, instead of eating them, tucks them into a pocket within the folds of his robe. It feels like an illicit, discreet transaction, like handing off credits to an informant. Sloane almost laughs.

But it was also a lure and, astonishingly, it works as intended. Gallius Rax slides nearer to her along the bench.

 

Sloane is weakening him; Rax feels it like physical exhaustion is setting in. Or perhaps it is not her, in particular, but the way they have met here, purposeless and adrift. Just this simple conversation rubs away layers of protection over his heart, exposing ever rawer and softer parts. And they haven’t even gotten very far.

He could build back his walls by lying, surely, but what about? The talk has been trivial. Flowers and such. Where did he go wrong in that, what had he revealed that he should have kept hidden?

Something in the air here has intoxicated him, because despite all this, he hasn’t left, and doesn’t plan to.

Beside him, Sloane exhales, just a hint of a sigh. “I admit. You’ve got an impressive collection here.”

Begrudging, but not bitterly so. It is more appreciative than she usually lets herself be.

“Which one…” Rax wets his lips. It’s not a strange question, surely, and he’s only _curious_. “… would you say is your favorite?”

When he turns his head, he finds himself at the receiving end of a stare so piercing he wonders if Rae Sloane has a bit of the same fearsome power the Emperor wielded. She’s nothing like him — so _beautiful_ , whereas he wore the ugliness of his soul on his face — but Rax is similarly frozen by her undivided attention. 

"I don't know," she says. "I'll have to think." Her arm slings around his shoulders, before he can question anything, and she draws him in close with one firm motion. 

It's all so far beyond the bounds of expectation that he doesn't realize at first that the pressure against his mouth signifies a kiss. She's kissing him.

His mind is empty, like clear spring water, until he feels another touch. Her free hand slips under his jaw and presses against his neck — throat — to hold him in place. So searingly hot, against such vulnerable skin. Instinct roars within him to shrink back. 

And so his pulse begins pounding, and he knows she can feel it against her fingers. He needs to pull away, and yet— 

The soft wisps of air exhaled from her nose tickle his cheek and his heart flares like a coal in a dying furnace. Her lips are shockingly soft and full, tongue sweetened by fruit juice. That tongue slides against his lower lip insistently, urging him to yield and open his mouth. In a daze, he follows her lead, and is rewarded with a long, slow taste of his own garden’s harvest.

With the faintest wet smack, she withdraws.

“The pink ones,” she tells him.

He remembers to breathe. 

There are many pink flowers here, he thinks. She could be referring to any of them. But she might not care to elaborate. Right now, there is clarity burning in her eyes. Too steely for gloating, at the moment, but close to it.

"So this is what you came here for," he says evenly, as if his heart isn’t still racing. "To seduce me."

He spots a little twitch in one cheek, as she pulls the corner of her mouth back. Her brows are still tensely knit. Such a belligerent expression for someone in her position. "You don't appreciate my advances, then?" There's almost a sardonic lilt to her tone. As if she's already disgusted by the entire affair. 

"I appreciate them for the clumsy attempts that they are." 

Sloane's eyes narrow. Then she says, ”I thought you might balk at this point. It seems I was right." 

Startlingly, this pierces through Rax's shell. His chin jerks up; he hadn't realized she could goad him like this, and realizes he must be far more careful. "At this point?" he repeats. 

"You so enjoy playing at flirtation with me, don't you?" She sits back, outright sneering now. "Expecting that it will simply unnerve me, or placate me, or both."

He could try to deny it, but there's no use when it's just the two of them. But if she expects him to be cringing in embarrassment at his own actions, she has miscalculated. He returns her sneer with one of his own. "As always, you view me in the most cynical light."

"Then tell me I'm wrong."

Rax sets his hand on hers, tugging it up from her lap and twining their fingers together. He takes his time with this motion, gliding his touch over her skin before squeezing tightly, perhaps tight enough to numb the tips of her fingers. Unnerve her? Placate her? He could do all that and so much more. But even this is enough. He hears her breath catch.

"And why should I?" he murmurs. "Why should I have to prove myself to you?"

There are a thousand things she could respond with. That she doesn't serve him, she serves the Empire. That even if she did serve him, she would not continue to do so if she found him unworthy. That the Empire would fare better under her than under him, that _he_ should be serving _her_. And he's sure that she believes all of those things. But the answer in her eyes is quite simple, far simpler than it needs to be. _Because I'll kill you if you don’t._

Those, he realizes, are familiar expectations for him. Comfortable, even.

“You think I’ve been toying with you.” He smiles crookedly and pulls her closer, nuzzling against her cheek. “You have no idea,” he breathes. “What it would mean to me. To _have you_ …” 

Fingers curling in his hair, bracing the back of his head, Sloane seizes his lips again.

And for a moment, Rax gives in. This would be the moment, in a better, neater story, when the music swells, passion overtaking logic. He wraps his arms around her and submits to the crescendo. 

He can taste her frustration, in the savage little bites that linger long enough that he can imagine her debating whether to draw blood. He hears it in the sharp gasps that punctuate the kisses. He cradles her closer, drags his tongue over her teeth, nips back. Hears her choke a moan into a growl, pushing the sound back into her throat. Unbearable. Sublime.

His lungs are burning for air, and he almost would prefer to hold his breath a little longer, let his thoughts dissolve, let it all wash away. Let her hold him here and drown him— no, _no_ , he can’t fall asleep, mustn’t close his— 

He pulls away from a distant memory, and sees gritted teeth. From the glint in Sloane’s eyes, it’s a challenge, and thus an invitation. 

And yet it’s not enough. 

“But I don’t,” Rax tells her, as the cold seeps back into him. “No… no. I see what it is. You’re angry with me. And now you’re picking a fight.”

Sloane’s grip on his hair remains. “That would explain things, wouldn’t it?” she says, and it sounds like it’s supposed to be curt but her voice is husky and raw and it’s too much to bear and he buries his lips under her jaw, satisfied by how it cuts her words short.

“I can see the appeal,” he eventually says. “Of fighting.”

She draws back, parsing his words. He doesn’t give her time to misinterpret him; his hand slides to her hip and he squeezes, drawing her attention down. Let her imagine what he could do if he took her back and acquainted her more thoroughly with the comfort of his quarters. Or more daring still, if they stayed here in this private oasis, surrounded by the smell of green.

She’s imagining it. And she’s leaning in, gripping his stray hand with hers, as if she’s about to move it somewhere else, somewhere closer and warmer. 

Rax tightens his fingers into a fist, stopping her. “Still, I can’t accept a false offer.”

Sloane stares back at him, dilated pupils turning her eyes almost as black as his. “I don’t know what more proof you need,” she says, “of my _intentions_.”

_Oh, I believe you want your hands on me,_ he thinks. _Not for pleasure, but certainly for satisfaction._

He expects she is truly baffled, though, because she can see what he wants. Nothing of it is hidden in this moment: desire like a gaping pit, aching to be filled. She’s in his arms, glaring at him with equally unbridled, belligerent lust, and that should be enough to throw everything aside. 

But it’s too much, too soon.

What he could say, but shouldn’t, is, “I could have lovers, pretty ones, brave ones, clever ones. This fleet alone is full of enjoyable company.” And he shouldn’t say it because his mind falls to a quiet presence with a quick-beating heart, youthful passion yearning towards the future, hoping to find anything that can carry her there. He thinks of the floating archidia when he thinks of Adea, a flower that swells up with air and entrusts itself to the wind when it spreads its seeds.

What he wants to say, but can’t, is, “You are not a flower in my garden, Rae. You are the soil and the sun.”

He has for her, instead, the perfect lie. Rax touches a thumb to her chin, traces up to her lips. Even before he speaks, her expression is stiffening, like she feels his intentions and is sickened by them. He agrees it is sickening. But it is necessary. 

“I think it is you,” he says, “who must prove yourself to me.” 

When he next kisses her cheek, her brow, the corner of her eye — he can’t help it, with her still so close — she is unyielding. As if he has turned her to wax with his words. 

“It’s easier than you think,” he murmurs. “Let go. Give in.” She never will. And he might. So he must ask the impossible of her.

He bends in one more time, stealing no more kisses, simply offering, lips parted slightly, eyes half shut. A tremor runs through him as her fingers tighten in his hair; she’s angry, driven by impulse. He wonders if he has miscalculated, if she will move in and take him anyway. Her short, choppy breaths tease his skin, so warm, still smelling sweetly of fruit. 

And then she does let go — pushing him back to the edge of the bench and straightening her posture, her hands primly returning to her lap. She does not look to him; her eyes are focused dead ahead, where the door is, even if it’s hidden by the overhanging leaves. 

“You despise me,” he says.  
  
Once, she denied it. Not this time. She says nothing.

He smiles at her, falsely, all teeth. 

Sloane stands and sharply straightens her uniform, smoothing away the wrinkles. “So that’s that,” she tells him.

“Oh,” he says, “don’t be so hard on yourself. You are still desirable beyond compare, and I will treasure the memory of your attentions.” He takes her hand and presses one more kiss to her knuckles; surprisingly she allows this. He lingers, looking up when she speaks. 

“I think it’s clear.” Sloane almost could be pitying in her tone, except it’s as harsh as iron. “You’re the one who’s been keeping me at arm’s length.”

Rax lets go of her hand. _You don’t know how close arm’s length is,_ he wants to say, but it sticks to the back of his throat and he swallows it down. 

There is scorn in her eyes as she moves away, through she’s still uncertain, he can tell that much. Her mind hasn’t been made up. But he watches her disappear into the leaves and when they close behind her it seems particularly final.

**Author's Note:**

> The thing with the black lilies used to be canon, you can look it up. Wild stuff.


End file.
